


Two for Tea

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surprise Kissing, That tea scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 20:37:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Jim didn't simply come over to drop cryptic clues and wave his cleverness about?</p><p>A fic in which Moriarty just spent a couple of months in prison, Sherlock doesn't know what to believe, and John is outraged as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two for Tea

As Sherlock poured the tea into china cups he was struck by an odd memory of his mother lecturing him about putting too much sugar in. It was one of those Normal People rules he didn’t really understand; if he wanted five sugar cubes, surely he was entitled to have five sugar cubes. People were always asking how you wanted your tea. There was a definite implication of choice there, and yet every time he loaded up on glucose he got the same disapproving look: from Mummy, from Mycroft, from John. Mrs Hudson at least let him have three but really, the whole thing was intolerable.

Then again, maybe his mind was throwing up random recollections to avoid the much more unusual sight of Jim sitting across from him (in his chair, damn it) carving an apple with a knife in a discomforting display of skill and familiarity. Sherlock handed Moriarty his tea and thought it was possibly the most absurd moment of his life, and absolutely one of those things People would disapprove of.

The Irishman sipped his tea carefully, leaning back as if completely at home. It made Sherlock wonder how much time the criminal had already spent at 221B. “You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces.”

Were they exchanging general knowledge now? Showing how clever they were like two blokes at a pub quiz? It seemed a bit mundane by their standards, but maybe this was Jim’s idea of foreplay.

“The boy stopped before he got to the end-”

“And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it.”

“Couldn’t cope with an unfinished melody.” Jim shook his head.

“Neither can you. That’s why you’ve come.”

Moriarty smirked, looking impossibly young. “You think so? Perhaps I felt like being sociable. Solitary confinement gets awfully dull after a month.”

“You don’t strike me as the sociable type.”

“Really?” he curled his lip, “But I’ve been so chatty with you, Sherlock. Sending you puzzles. Miss Adler, now she was practically gift-wrapped.”

“If you wanted my attention, you succeeded. If you wanted my admiration-”

“I succeeded.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I may be rather apathetic about breaking the law myself, but I don’t condone it in others. You kill, torment, manipulate, extort. The victims of your crimes deserve better.”

“Darling, don’t for one second pretend I haven’t thoroughly impressed you. You’ve been playing with the ordinary criminals of London for so long, and here I am like a revelation. A challenge, one suited to you, maybe even one you can handle better than dear Mycroft. Wouldn’t that be a coup, coming out ahead of big brother for once?”

He rolled his eyes. “If you think I care about Mycroft’s opinion-”

“Oh you don’t, I know. But some little part of you, the child Sherlock, cares very much.”

“Got brothers of your own, Jim?” Sherlock smirked.

“Two, actually.”

 

The detective stared. Jim sipped his tea casually, eyes not even on the brunette. That couldn’t be true. Why would Jim volunteer anything about himself? Unless it was to show Sherlock that no matter how much he knew, he still wouldn’t be able to figure the criminal out. Or maybe it _was_ true, and Jim assumed Sherlock wouldn’t believe it.

“Are they as exceptional as you? I don’t think England could handle it.”

Jim half-shrugged. “Dull, ordinary types. One’s a station-master and one’s a colonel – or he was. Bit of a family disgrace there, I’m afraid.”

“Hard to imagine what he had to do to beat you to the title.”

“Oh, I barely count.”

Sherlock pursed his lips sympathetically. “Your parents aren’t the academic type.”

“God no. Church and country before all else, that sort of thing. You’ve no idea how lucky you are to have at least one relative who doesn’t adopt a perpetual look of confusion when you speak.”

“I wouldn’t call Mycroft a blessing.”

“Ah, but he does so desperately want to take care of you. Protective Mycroft, watching over baby Sherlock and cleaning up his messes. How is he going to clean up this one?”

Sherlock slowly set his cup back in the saucer. “I thought this was a civilized meeting.”

“So far.”

“Are you telling me it’s about to become less civil? Violent, perhaps?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Have you come here to extort me, Jim? Coerce me into something I don’t want to do in order to save someone, probably someone you think matters to me?”

“No. I told you Sherlock, this little visit has nothing to do with our game. It’s a social call.”

“Forgive me if I fail to understand how that could become messy, if it’s as well-intended as you claim.”

Jim smiled ruefully. “Well unfortunately sometimes these things get complicated, despite my good intentions.”

“You? Good intentions?” Sherlock snorted.

“You, solving crimes to help the little people? Stranger things have happened, honey.”

 

Jim put his tea aside and stood, walking over to the desk. Sherlock tensed in his chair as the criminal lifted a pile of rubbish and papers and set it aside, uncovered the small record player underneath. Jim rescued it from the chaos of the desk, placing it on the coffee table. He went to the bookcase to flick through Sherlock’s record collection, never once hesitating, as if he was aware of every single object in the flat and its location.

“Oh no please, help yourself.” The detective griped, mostly to cover how put out he was.

Jim flashed him a cheeky smile and took out an LP, setting it up and fiddling with the speed settings.

“If my conversation bores you, there’s the door.”

Jim lowered the needle and walked over to Sherlock, stopping next to the chair with his hand extended as soft strains of Mozart flowed through the record player’s tiny speakers. “Dance with me.”

“Are you insane?”

“Almost certainly.”

Sherlock stared at him, setting his cup down. “You didn’t break into my flat to drink tea and waltz with me.”

“I did, actually. So are you going to be a polite host and oblige me?”

“I’m not your host at all. You’re a…gatecrasher.”

“You put out your favourite china for me – I’d say that makes me a guest. Dance with me, Sherlock,” Jim tilted his head, eyes teasing, “What harm could it do?”

Sherlock looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. He did love to dance, though that might be reason enough to refuse – wouldn’t Jim find his little passion _hilarious_? But the other man was being quite talkative, and anything Sherlock could get from him was always worth hearing. He stood, buttoning his jacket.

“I shall lead.”

“I think not.” Moriarty scoffed.

Sherlock gave a tight smug smile. “I’m taller.”

Jim narrowed his gaze dangerously but nodded. Sherlock took his hand, placing the other on Jim’s waist. The Irishman quickly wrapped his around the back of Sherlock’s neck, giving him a wink when the detective scowled. Sherlock tried to compose himself, ignoring Jim and keeping a space between them as he started moving in time with the beat. He decided to keep it simple so he could devote most of his mental power to analyzing Jim. Sherlock established a pattern, the two of them marking out a square around the furniture.

Jim laughed. “You’re very light on your feet for such a gangly fellow.”

“You’re still trying to lead.”

“Apologies, really – habit. I’ll be good.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look and Jim snickered.

“I can be, you know. When it suits me.”

“Don’t go changing on me, Jim. I might die of shock.”

He smiled wildly. “But I’m soooooo changeable!”

“Why did you want to dance with me?” Sherlock asked.

 

“It was a thought I had, in prison. A whim I suppose. I was curious.”

“About?”

“Your reaction.”

“If you were trying to unsettle me, you needn’t have bothered.”

“It wasn’t about the dance, darling. I’s about being close. You distance yourself from the rest of the world, and here you are face to face with your nemesis. Touching intimately,” he illustrated by rubbing his fingers down the side of Sherlock’s neck, “Dangerously.”

“Distance doesn’t matter with you. You’re always dangerous.”

 “But bombs and messages are things you’re used to, and this is not. This is _new_. I love new.”

“What makes you think I haven’t had…this?”

Jim gave him a skeptical look. “Really Sherlock?”

“What? I was young once. Unrestrained.”

Jim’s expression didn’t change and finally the taller man sighed.

“I haven’t had much of a chance to practice, I suppose. The people my own age always found me rather abrasive.”

“Because you’re absolutely tactless, darling. It’s okay, I find it charming. So does Johnny, though he pretends otherwise for appearance’s sake.”

Sherlock frowned. “Leave him out of this.”

“Why, because you’re afraid I’m after him again? So last season, honey. Or is it because you don’t like to think of him while you're in the arms of another man – is it guilt, Sherly?”

He laughed. “There’s nothing going on between me and John.”

“He’s not still maintaining that façade about not being gay, is he?”

“He’s not gay,” Sherlock said, “Or at least he’s not only interested in men.”

“And you?”

“I’m not interested in anyone.”

Moriarty leaned in, smile too sharp. “Liar. You can’t stop thinking about me.”

“Because you are the work, and the work is all I care about.”

“I’m touched, Sherlock. From you that’s practically a declaration of love.”

Sherlock growled under his breath and stopped suddenly, using the sudden shift to throw Jim’s weight to one side and dip him. The criminal managed not to squeak but his fingers did dig into Sherlock’s neck harshly, licking his lips as he watched the detective expectantly.

“I’m not the one who came over as soon as he got out of prison like a man rushing home to his mistress. How many hours a day did you spend thinking about me, James? Ten? Twenty?”

“It’s awfully hard to say. No clocks in prison.”

Sherlock scanned his face, frowning. “You _missed_ me.”

“Don’t we always miss each other when we’re not playing? Everyone else is so boring.”

“You managed to entertain yourself for years before I knew you existed.”

“But now nobody can compare. Perhaps I shouldn’t have made contact. It makes life so disappointing,” Jim sighed heavily, turning it into a smile, “But certainly more fun as well.”

Sherlock finally lifted him out of the dip but didn’t start moving again, simply holding Jim in place. “I…agree.”

“That I’m the best?” Jim winked.

“That you provide both welcome entertainment and an impossible standard. I worry sometimes that if I stop you, I shall have no reason to live afterwards.”

It was a huge admission, one Sherlock hadn’t really been meaning to make, but the music was soft and inviting and Jim was so close, right there, after months of being away, and he couldn’t quite stop the words from tumbling out.

Jim searched his gaze for a moment. Then, very cautiously, he leaned up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

It only lasted a few seconds, the briefest of contact, and then the criminal pulled back and started moving his feet so that Sherlock was forced to move to avoid tripping over himself. They waltzed around the lounge room for a minute in silence, not really looking at each other, until Sherlock cleared his throat.

“What was that?”

“An experiment.”

The brunette nodded thoughtfully, gaze still fixed over Jim’s head. They made another circuit before he spoke again.

“What did you conclude?”

Jim smirked at him. “You might be worth a repeat performance.”

“I don’t know what you think it will achieve.”

He made a face. “I don’t know, alleviating our mutual constant boredom for a start?”

“Even if we weren’t enemies, I don’t…perhaps you indulge in physical desire but I prefer my work.”

“I bet I could change your mind.”

Sherlock scowled. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Doesn’t it? You said yourself I’m special. Different. More on your level, more than ordinary. I am the _only_ _one_ who could change your mind.”

Sherlock looked away, pouting.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?”

Both men froze in place, turning to look at the stunned John in the doorway, the music suddenly awkward in the continuing silence. John turned to his flatmate, eyes pleading.

“Sherlock?”

“What does it look like?”

“I don’t bloody know, do I!”

Jim let go of the detective, straightening. “I was just leaving.”

“Too bloody right!”

Jim rolled his eyes at John, turning to Sherlock. “Think it over, honey. You’ve got my number.”

He walked towards the stairs. John didn’t move. Jim stared him down disdainfully.

“Don’t waste my time on childish displays of aggression, Dr Watson. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

John still didn’t move. “Please tell me we’re not just going to let him walk out of here?”

“Why not?” Sherlock sniffed, “The courts did. Do you suppose we can do better without resorting to cold-blooded execution?”

John scowled but stepped aside.

“There you go! Isn’t that nicer?” Jim beamed, sweeping past, “Toodles.”

 

The criminal made his way downstairs, nobody else moving until the street door slammed shut. Sherlock belatedly turned off the record player.

“Are we going to talk about what I just walked in on?”

“Two men having a discussion, not unusual when they share common interests.”

The blond stepped into the room and frowned at the tea cups. “Tea and dancing? That’s not a discussion, Sherlock. You could have yelled to him from the window if all you wanted to do was talk.”

“Yes but that wouldn’t be very private, would it?”

“Exactly. It would be much safer.”

The younger man chuckled. “Were you worried about me?”

“Yes! I thought he’d come here to…get even with you or something.”

“No, just a chat. He does so like to hear himself speak.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know.” John muttered.

Sherlock raised his brows. “Pardon?”

“So now what?” John stuck his lip out, unconsciously hugging himself.

Sherlock ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “That, dear John, is the question.”


End file.
